


The Graces

by byebyeskylark



Series: City Limits [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff, Gen, Magic, a little bit of angst here and there, schmaltz, so much schmaltz, supernatural stuff, vague references to past child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-11 12:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyeskylark/pseuds/byebyeskylark
Summary: Gotham is riddled with Places to Be Avoided, even by super criminals. It's an old city seething with generations of human life and death and it attracts more than its fair share of hauntings, curses and possessions.So it comes as a surprise that not every supernatural spot has an axe to grind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never would have thought I'd write something so fluffy, certainly not about Damian. This whole age-regression thing feels self-indulgent (more so than usual?) and that's just too bad, because I had fun writing this. I hope the schmaltz police don't arrest me.

Damian knew there were certain spots in Gotham to be avoided. The apartments that had been built on the site of the city's original poorhouse. The strips of filthy soil underneath the southern-most bridge on the west side of the Narrows. The Crossroads. A particularly vindictive corner of West Park marked by a dead willow that no team of parks workers had ever been able to remove. 

He assumed, correctly, that all these areas had some level of malice to them. What he didn't know was that there were other spots. Though their number was fewer, these places were benign and even, occasionally, rather generous.

__________

Damian had spent ten years getting to know Gotham's ins and outs. It wasn't his city the way it was his father's, but it was home. Familiar ground. He shared patrol routes with his siblings but more often than not he was on his own. He liked it that way. If he had this time alone it made him less prickly around them later. And he did want to be less prickly. They were his family, something he appreciated more and more the older he got.

Although he'd graduated high school early (he wasn't about to let Drake be the only one in the family with that honor), the years he'd spent in school with other children had shown him what normal families looked like. And as Damian had started college work he'd delved into psychology texts, ostensibly to gain insight into the Arkham inmates they often had to subdue. But he'd spent about a week learning everything he could about childhood trauma, too. 

Because Damian knew he'd been cheated of something. Something important. 

He never bothered being particularly angry with Mother or Grandfather for the abuse he suffered in his formative years. For later misdeeds, yes, but that abuse, he accepted. It was too late to do anything about it, and it had given him extraordinary skills. Objectively, Damian knew it for what it was, but he couldn't bring himself to feel bitter about it.

Now, at twenty, he was almost as tall as Father, fast and heavy-hitting. Less hot-headed than he'd been as a child; his speech held fewer barbs, if only because he spoke less. Drake, Cassandra, Stephanie, and Todd trusted his judgment and his abilities. Father and Grayson still had a tendency to try and sideline him, but he understood, now, that it had nothing to do with doubt in his skills. 

Today, when he looked at young children and imagined how he must have looked and sounded to them when he arrived, at ten years old, he knew why they had been so protective. When one of his siblings was injured or captured he knew why they had been afraid. When Alfred had needed surgery last year, minor though it was, he had worried as much or more than the rest of the family. He couldn't lose someone he loved when he'd only recently begun to really understand that love was anything but a weakness. 

Tonight Damian was patrolling the rooftops of the northwest side of the city, slowly looping his way back toward the spot he'd left the bike, closer to home. He stopped on the roof of a boutique hotel across the street from Swansett Park, a bit of land with just enough room for a small playground, some trees, and public art. Although this part of the city was usually quiet, there had been a few sexual assaults in the neighborhood that his family and the police suspected were committed by the same man. So Damian lingered and scanned the area, listening to the city sounds.

Swansett Park's main attraction was one of the statues there, the Graces. It had been donated to the city by a particularly eccentric artist in the 1970s. Gotham Parks & Rec hid it in a corner of Swansett Park and hoped no one would notice that it was a garishly colorful mishmash of three female figures standing back to back: the Virgin Mary, unmistakable in her blue veil despite her cartoonish lipstick, rouge and mascara; Guanyin, Buddhist Goddess of Mercy (frequently portrayed as either male or female, to show her transcendence of gender, but in this instance sporting both breasts and a noticeable bulge); and Epona, a Gallo-Roman goddess of horses and fertility, who was not usually depicted as having the head of a horse.

The ensuing uproar had involved Christians of nearly every denomination, local Buddhist organizations, Gotham's clergy, and conservative pundits decrying the Graces as at best, sacrilegious, and at worst, obscene. Members of both religions attacked the artist, a man who proved irate and incredibly petty, and each other, as they complained both that _their_ figure was grossly misrepresented/appropriated and shouldn't be lumped in with _those_ figures. Nobody defended Epona: both sides agreed that she was "unsettling."

Swansett Park was in a neighborhood that, at the time, had not been doing well. Check cashers populated the mostly empty storefronts, the local schools were struggling to keep kids in classes, and the area was generally shabby and depressed. Which is probably the only reason why the wealthier citizens arguing about the Graces didn't go tear them down personally.

"Why are they even called 'The Graces'? The Graces were Greek, it makes no sense!" bemoaned a socialite on the Women's Board of Gotham's Art Institute.

In the middle of this, the artist died. He left a considerable amount of money to the city, but only on the condition that the Graces be left alone in perpetuity. 

Simultaneously, locals started to leave offerings at the feet of the statue: bundles of flowers, brightly colored candy. A picture printed in the Gotham Times showed a small lit candle nestled in between Guanyin and Epona's arms. It ran next to a story of a little girl miraculously healed of her polio-weakened leg after her mother, commenting only with absolute anonymity, prayed at the statue of the Graces. 

So the Graces were spared. The neighborhood gentrified. And still today people often left offerings for the statue, or wrote wishes on pieces of paper and tucked them into the space between the three figures' heads, where they eventually blew away or were cleared out by city employees.

Damian knew none of this. It wasn't in the same vein of Gotham history he was generally familiar with. But he noticed when a little boy walked confidently into the park, at 2 AM on a Tuesday, clambered onto a swing, and began pumping his short legs.

Damian moved to the west edge of the building and looked up and down the adjacent street. No sign of adults. Checking that the boy was still swinging, he moved to the east side and did the same check. Seeing no one, he hopped down onto the small hotel's top balcony. He swung himself over the edge and dropped to the rail of the next balcony, repeating the same steps for the next floor until he landed lightly on the ground. He headed for the park entrance, watching the boy swing, chains creaking slightly, but also scanning for threats or parents who might be coming to collect him. 

He made it all the way to the large metal swing set, letting the boy see him approach. 

"Hi!" the little boy said happily, rocking his body against the arc of the swing, his red hair fluttering in the breeze. He wore green pajamas with dinosaurs on them.

"Hi," Damian replied with a small smile, "I doubt you're allowed to be out here alone, especially this late at night."

"Sure I am," the boy responded, and Damian knew a shit-eating grin when he saw one. Here was a child guaranteed to try the patience of any adult trying to corral him. Damian noted that he didn't seem fazed by the cape or mask.

"My parents gave me permission. They said I could come here whenever I wanted!" The little boy turned his face to the sky, reveling in his newfound freedom.

Damian felt certain that calling the kid a liar was a surefire way to trigger more and bigger lies. He decided humoring him might be best while he considered his options.

"It is nice when parents are understanding like that, isn't it? How long are you planning to stay out tonight?"

"As long as I want!" the boy let the swing slow down, dragging his feet (in sneakers but no socks), in the wood chips covering the playground. 

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Robin," Damian said, surprised that wasn't obvious to a native Gothamite, "What's yours?"

"Jake," who got up off the swing and laid on his belly on it, twirling so that the chains twisted above him.

"Jake, I was here watching this park because there have been some attacks in this area at night."

"You can't scare me with the boogyman," Jake gave him a scornful look and continued twirling, fighting against the resistance of the stiffening chains.

Damian crouched beside Jake, out of limb range in case he decided to lift his feet and start spinning in the opposite direction.

"Not boogymen, Jake." He had a hard time keeping his disdain for the ridiculous word out of his voice, "Real men. They might hurt you, or they could hurt your mom or dad if they're out looking for you. I'm worried that they wouldn't be safe out here this late at night."

Jake let go of his twirl and spun wildly for a few seconds before the swing returned to normal. He put his feet down on the ground and stood, looking at Damian. 

"You aren't just saying that to scare me into going home?" his high voice was part suspicious and part worried. 

Damian made sure to look him in the eye. 

"No Jake, I would never lie or joke about real danger. Can you tell me where you live? I'll walk you home."

"Okay," Jake acquiesced, his voice small. He reached up and took Damian's gloved hand without invitation, which made Damian feel rather pleased. Jake led them toward the east entrance of the park. 

As they were passing the Graces in their corner Damian heard running footsteps and pulled Jake to a stop, reaching for a Batarang on his belt. Then,

"Jake!" he heard a man shout. 

"Daddy!" Jake yelled back. He let go of Damian's hand to run and meet his father, a red haired man in glasses who came sprinting barefoot into the park in a white tee and plaid pajama bottoms. He scooped Jake into his arms.

"Daddy, Robin says it isn't safe for you out here!" Jake admonished seriously.

Jake's father laughed breathlessly and then froze at the sight of Damian, still standing near the Graces.

"God it's really you. One of you. Holy cow." His harried attention turned back to Jake.

"Jake! Buddy, you absolutely cannot leave the house without one of us, definitely not at night, it isn't safe for you either. Even if Robin's around."

Damian was surprised and not a little touched that the man didn't seem to regard him with suspicion at all. He chalked it up to his father's legacy. His family's legacy.

Jake's father pulled a cell phone from his pocket and fumbled to dial.

"Honey? I've got 'im, he was at the park,"

Damian stepped forward,

"Sir, is your partner out alone?"

"God no," the man said, phone still held to his ear and Jake held firmly on his other hip, "We woke up a neighbor and his dog, I made her go with them."

Damian nodded and waited for the man to finish his conversation. This was usually the point where he disappeared into the night, watching from afar to make sure they got home okay, but he found himself observing the boy and his father.

Jake rested his head on his dad's shoulder, a small hand fiddling with the neckline of the white undershirt. Entirely unworried, even about being punished, now that he was in his father's arms. The man put his phone back in his pocket.

"Jake. You snuck out because you were still mad about not going to the park today," his voice was serious but not angry. Damian watched, fascinated.

"Yes," Jake replied, showing some signs of chagrin.

"But you understood why we couldn't go to the park,"

"Mom had an 'mergency patient." 

"Yes. Now, sneaking out? You scared us very, very badly. You knew it would. But I don't think you know how dangerous the city can be at night, not just for little kids."

"Robin told me,"

"Right. Are you ever going to do this again, even if you're mad at us?"

"No," Jake mumbled as his chin trembled.

"Good," he kissed Jake's forehead, "And I think I'll get smart locks that send me an alert when the windows or doors open," he said, with a meaningful look at Damian.

Damian was thinking of all the many things he'd done or said incorrectly as a small child and the slaps, hits and rebukes he'd received. Of the absurd punishments for failure. Of rarely feeling certain of himself or his actions, worrying that if he failed one too many times that he would no longer have a place in his grandfather's works, in his household, or in his mother's heart.

And later, when he's been dumped on Father's doorstep...It had been a long time before he felt secure with his family here.

He wished he knew what it was like to feel so safe, so loved, as a child.

Damian forced a smile, aware that his neutral face was less-than-friendly (what Stephanie called "resting bitch face").

"I'm glad you're safe, Jake. You should listen to you dad in future."

He turned and walked quickly toward the opposite entrance to the park, only raising a gloved hand when he heard Jake and his father chorus, in that slow, teaching-children-manners-way:

"Thank you, Robin!"

Damian silently scaled a nearby greystone and turned to watch Jake and his dad, small figures in the distance, meet up with Jake's mother, the night-robed older male neighbor, and his portly but enthusiastic dog. A corner of his mouth quirked and he turned to run across the roof as Barbara's voice sounded in his ear.

"Robin? Attempted rapist is in cuffs over on Plano and Wellesley. He picked a high school wrestling champ as his next victim and got body-slammed to hell and back again. She got him in a hold and kept him there 'til the cops showed up," Damian could hear the satisfied chuckle in her voice as well as the yawn.

"Hope the city gives her one of those medals," he replied, "Unless you've something else for me I'm calling it a night,"

"Go home, sleep well!"

"Likewise."

Damian kept his eyes peeled for the rest of the run across the rooftops, and for the ride back to the forested road that led to the Cave, but saw nothing to stop for. Moving silently through the manor he let Sirius out once more (he occasionally regretted letting Cassandra name the shepherd mix after a reread of Harry Potter), and went to bed with the dog on one side and Alfred the Cat on his other.

__________

He woke up feeling that certain type of comfort that makes one's limbs feel extra heavy and relaxed. Blinking, he realized the sun was higher than he'd thought. Dust motes moved through the beam of bright light streaming through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains of his room.

Sirius whined from behind Damian's back. Not ready to move yet, he ignored him. Until Alfred the Cat walked into his line of vision and Damian started. 

Alfred was suddenly enormous. Damian knew Alfred only about 3 kg, but as he walked on top of the sheets, delicately stepping along the outline of Damian's body, he seemed to loom over him.

Now that he'd moved Damian realized something was deeply wrong. He tried to sit up and found himself entangled in...his own clothing? His feet didn't even reach half way down Sirius' body, let alone to the foot of the bed, as they usually did. 

Damian pulled his arms through the now huge sleeves of the tee he had slept in and inspected his hands. They were even smaller than Jake's had been last night. With unmistakable baby fat rounding out his small fingers.

He felt his lip start to tremble as Sirius whined again, looking at him with concern. Alfred the Cat had startled when Damian startled and had retreated, offended, to the other corner of the bed to wash himself.

There was nothing to be gained by staying here. Damian pulled his t-shirt with him out of the bed, landing on the floor that was much farther away than usual. He decided if he looked at the full length mirror in his closet he really would cry, so he picked up the hem of his shirt, to avoid tripping over it, and let the worried Sirius herd him into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to apologize for Sirius' really uncreative name. Basically I spent a few minutes trying to figure out some ancient general Damian could name a dog after (on the assumption that Titus would have peacefully passed away sometime in the last few years oh god I'm sorry to even mention it), but all the old dead bastards were bastards so I took an easy way out.


	2. Chapter 2

"Master Tim, did you already open the fresh bag of coffee?" Alfred called from within the deep pantry in the manor's kitchen.

"Yeah, is that cool?" Tim worked on flipping a protein pancake at the stove.

"Of course, I just wanted to be sure you'd found it. Master Richard helped me unload the shopping this week,"

Tim was, in fact, nearly done with his second cup of the day. He picked up the slightly battered mug with a rainy boat scene on it (it had always been his favorite) to take a sip when he heard Sirius let out a short, nervous bark behind him. He turned to look.

Only his reflexes saved the mug, and only the fact that there was barely a gulp left in it saved his feet from a scalding as he fumbled and caught it again. 

Tim found himself staring at a little boy who couldn't be more than three years old, dwarfed by a man's t-shirt and being buffeted about by Sirius' anxious fidgeting. 

The little boy's eyes were filling up with tears. Hazel eyes set against dusky skin and dark hair. A faint scar cut through one eyebrow.

"Damian?" Tim exclaimed louder than he meant to. 

Alfred emerged from the pantry with a quizzical look on his face, only to find the refrigerator door suddenly supporting his weight as he sagged against it in shock.

Damian's lip quivered and Sirius whined again. Tim's mind was racing as he knelt.

"Damian," he said more softly, "Do you know who we are?"

A pause, then a nod. He still looked frightened. And terribly small.

"Hey, it's okay," Tim reassured him, "Can I...would it be okay if I gave you a hug?" opening his arms.

The words felt foreign and awkward in Tim's mouth and he worried he would set Damian's ego on edge, but Damian surprised him by running directly into his arms. Tim picked the little boy up and stood. 

Alfred, quickly getting over the shock of seeing Damian as, somehow, a mere toddler, approached cautiously, smiling at the damp eyes peeping over Tim's shoulder. Sirius, happier now that someone was helping his boy, licked Damian's dangling foot, eliciting a giggle that made both Alfred and Tim's eyebrows shoot up. In ten years they'd never heard a proper _giggle_ from Damian.

"Well, my lad!" Alfred said bracingly, "This is quite a pickle!" He brushed hair out of Damian's face with one hand and patted his small back with the other as Tim held him. "But we'll sort it out, as we always do." 

Alfred pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and wiped Damian's face. Damian made a familiar scowl but suffered the attention without resisting.

"Damian, what happened on patrol? Did you wake up this way?" Tim asked.

Damian answered in Arabic, then frowned.

"He says nothing unusual happened on patrol and he woke up small," Tim translated.

Damian's face scrunched up in concentration,

"I...remember English but it doesn't come easily now," he spoke in a high, piping voice but he enunciated clearly.

"Did you speak it often at this age?" Alfred queried.

"Nooo," Damian answered, drawing it out in a way they'd never heard him do before, "I have all my memories and," he paused thinking of a word, "-knowledge. But it's…"

He gestured to the back of his head and finished the sentence in Arabic.

"Not as accessible," Tim supplied for Alfred. 

Damian pointed at Sirius, who was standing patiently at the side door, and spoke again.

"Oh, of course," Alfred let the dog out.

"Crap, pancakes!" Tim shifted Damian to one hip and moved back to the cooktop, removing a few pancakes that were much browner than he preferred. He poured more batter onto the griddle.

Damian made a very small "hmm" noise and Tim turned his attention back to him. This was absolutely bizarre. And yet it didn't feel as odd as it should, holding a baby Damian.

"Well, this looks like magic to me," he sat Damian on a bar stool where he could watch Tim continue to flip pancakes. Damian moved so he was kneeling on it, his body draped across the marble counter top in the too large shirt, its neck stretching down his little chest as he eyed the stack of finished pancakes hungrily.

Tim chuckled and slid some pancakes onto a ready plate. He passed it and the syrup to Damian, who poured some while he waited for Tim to hand him a fork. 

He didn't have much experience with young children, but Tim felt certain Damian had better coordination and language skills that most kids his "age." Was it because he had an adult brain or because Damian had really been this advanced when he had been this young the first time around? Tim's brain continued to work through the implications and possibilities as he cooked.

Alfred, watching this, had already compiled a substantial list of things to do now that they suddenly had a toddler to feed and clothe, however temporary that was. He was also warmed at the sight of these two getting along so easily. Damian seemed more or less like himself, but also softer. Perhaps he _felt_ like a little boy even though most of his adult knowledge was intact.

"Master Bruce and Cassandra don't land until 5 o'clock tonight. Should we consult one of the witches or wizards of our acquaintance in the meantime, or wait for his judgment?" Alfred mused with just a hint of sarcasm. Their lives really were the limit.

Damian swallowed a bite of fluffy pancake and looked worriedly at Tim.

 _Father will be upset_ , he said in Arabic. Part of him desperately wanted to see Father and another part of him was afraid of meeting him like this.

 _No. He'll just be worried, not angry,_ Tim countered. To Alfred he said,

"I don't think there's any harm in waiting. We'll just have to keep an eye on Damian. If he starts regressing or getting any smaller we'll call Zatanna. Maybe Blood, if she's not available."

"Well, while you two finish breakfast I'm going to see if I can't hunt up some clothing for the young Master. Then I think I'll call Master Richard and ask him to do a little shopping for us."

"You really think we have anything that will fit him?" Tim asked, as he watched Damian use both hands to lift a glass of water.

Alfred just hummed a reply as he left the kitchen, heading toward the upper stories of the mansion.

__________

The closet of one of the guest rooms on the second floor, once a small attached room meant for a maid or valet, had been lined with cedar planks. Alfred kept their winter coats, tuxedos, and some of Cassandra's formal wear there. Hanging in the back, though, were a few of Martha Wayne's furs and a wool coat that had belonged to Thomas. On the shelf above were a hat box with a fedora Thomas had worn occasionally and, carefully packed away, Martha's wedding dress. On the floor beneath the old hanging finery was a small chest. Alfred knelt to open it, groaning a little at the protest his knees gave. 

Martha had packed the chest herself. Alfred didn't think it had been opened in the forty plus years it had been since he'd placed it there. It held Bruce's baby shoes, a Christening gown, much older than Bruce, a few baby hats and booties, and a much worn Teddy bear. A few of the baby items had belonged to grandparents, some had been Thomas' and some Martha's – a pink lacy sweater along with an old picture of her wearing it as a baby. Alfred carefully pulled items out and put them aside, looking for an outfit he knew Martha had saved.

For one of their first family portraits she had dressed Bruce in a button down shirt, slacks, and a navy blue vest she had knit herself. It was a simple pattern, as she hadn't been a very avid knitter, but she'd insisted on making one nice thing for Bruce while he was still a "baby." Alfred could find the portrait in the photo albums downstairs, but he knew what it looked like: smiling parents squeezed together so they could hold Bruce on both their laps as he grinned at the camera. He'd been about two, and he had actually been grinning at Alfred, standing behind the photographer. Martha had been so pleased at the charming picture she'd saved the whole outfit and not just the vest, thinking perhaps future generations could recreate the photo. 

Alfred unfolded the creased pants and shirt along with the vest, a little scratchy perhaps, but it would do. Master Richard would need to buy some socks, underwear, and shoes, however. Alfred was looking forward to that call.

__________

"What," Dick said flatly into the phone.

Alfred sighed and feigned irritation, enjoying himself,

"I know you heard me perfectly well, Master Richard, don't make me repeat myself,"

"Why. Do you need clothing. For a little. Boy." Dick turned the words into punctuation, "Which one of us brought home a _toddler_?" he practically hissed. 

"So help me, Alfred, if this is another one of Bruce's, I will stage an intervention. God, it's not another one of _Talia's_ , is it? That will kill Damian. Oh my God, but it would be worse if it was anyone else. Is it – it's not any of the boys' right?" Now he sounded close to panic, "Alfred you can't do this to me, just tell me what's going on."

"I can safely promise you that no new 'surprises' have been left on our doorstep. Please just get a few outfits for a boy about three years old. You may need to check what that translates to in children's sizes. I believe it's 3T, but I haven't shopped in the children's department since you were young, and you weren't _that_ small at the time."

"Perhaps you should get a few sizes up and down as well, just in case we've guessed incorrectly. Especially for the shoes."

__________

When Dick arrived at the Manor in the early afternoon his stomach was somersaulting. He parked in the garage since rain was in the forecast and pulled bag after bag out of the trunk, pulling their handles up his forearms so he could carry them all at once. He'd gone overboard, but that's what returns were for.

He swung them through the door to the mudroom and then down the hall to the kitchen. He didn't find anyone there and moved on to the nearest living rooms. Sirius came running out of one, panting and excited to see him. 

"Hey, buddy," Dick said, unable to release the bags and pet the dog as he circled and wiggled and generally got in Dick's way.

"Grayson!" shouted a tiny voice.

Dick's arms went limp and all the bags slid off them all at once, some slipping off Sirius' soft fur as they dropped onto him, as Dick watched a little boy come running at him. His pants were a little too short, showing bare feet and ankles, and the sleeves on his button down shirt were rolled up to disguise the fact that they were also too short, but Dick knew immediately who he was and reached out to catch the little figure when it launched itself at him. He held Damian – tiny, tiny Damian, impossibly small, grinning with pearly little baby teeth – out at arm's length, so he could look at him.

The Damian he knew was reserved and quiet, capable of smiling and of laughter, but almost always with an attitude lurking beneath them. Observant and sharp, he often had frown lines. 

But here was a just-out-of-baby-hood Damian smiling unabashedly at him. No worry or frown lines on his small, almost chubby, face. Dick laughed suddenly, banishing his look of shock, and tossed Damian very gently in the air before hugging him close.

"Where," he demanded jokingly, "is Damian and who left this little munchkin in his place?" 

Damian giggled as Dick bounced him on his hip, carrying him closer to Alfred and Tim who were coming down the hall.

"You just wanted to listen to me panic on the phone," he accused Alfred, who laughed.

"I regret nothing."

"Well," Dick tickled Damian, who shrieked a laugh, "Tell me all about it!"

__________

They spent the afternoon playing with puzzles, some of the easier video games, and reading to Damian, who didn't seem to mind listening to English despite still not speaking it readily. They had tried drawing, but Damian seemed frustrated when he couldn't draw at his usual level of proficiency, so they stopped. 

Dick was delighted at getting to know this tiny, happy baby version of Damian. He carried him around and snuggled him. He balanced him on one hand, marveling at the fact that both of Damian's feet could fit there. Dick was glad Tim was there to translate – his Arabic wasn't strong enough for the level of language Damian maintained. 

He was thrilled that Damian seemed okay with suddenly being a small child. That he felt comfortable laughing, playing, and cuddling. Dick wondered if Damian hid this more relaxed side himself all the time or if it was due to the magic affecting him.

At one point Damian climbed up next to Alfred in an armchair, to see the pictures in the book the older man was reading aloud. Dick turned to Tim and demanded in an undertone,

"We need pictures of this. All the pictures, Tim."

Tim already had his cell out,

"Don't worry, I think I've taken two hundred since this morning." 

They had sorted through the clothing Dick had bought.

"Drat," Alfred collected the empty bags, "I should have told you to buy pajamas."

"Well, what if he just wears a t-shirt and maybe..." Dick sifted through the pile of clothing they'd decided would fit Damian.

"Yeah," he found what he was looking for, "these joggers are soft enough to be comfortable, right?" He offered them to Alfred for inspection. "Man, this stuff is so cute, look at these tiny pockets!" he exclaimed.

Tim started to roll his eyes, but Alfred's genuine chuckle at Dick's enthusiasm stopped him. They _were_ cute. It was silly to judge Dick for gushing over them.

Damian had returned from the bathroom where he'd changed into a shirt and jeans that fit, though he'd kept Bruce's vest on. He sidled up to Tim, still seated on the floor where they had been sorting clothes. He shyly held out one of his sleeves: he had gotten the shirt on without realizing the cuff was unbuttoned and found buttoning it one-handed beyond him.

Tim smiled and did up the button – the button hole was tight due to newness – and was gratified when Damian smiled back and quietly thanked him. It had been a long time since things had been bad between them, but they were rarely this easy either.

He watched as Dick and Alfred expressed approval of the change of clothes. Dick was always quick to smile but today he was all smile. The way he looked at Damian as the little boy folded himself into Dick's lap made Tim's chest feel tight. Even Alfred, whose affection (once understood) was never doubted, didn't wear his heart on his sleeve the way Dick did.

And Damian seemed to enjoy the attention and affection. Tim knew Damian had soft spots, but he hadn't seen a sharp edge all day. Even when he'd been angry that he couldn't draw the same way he could as a twenty year old man, he hadn't taken it out on them. He hadn't sulked when they pivoted to another activity. Is this what it would have been like if he'd grown up with them the first time around? A hyper-intelligent, kind, mini-Bruce they could all dote on?

Tim's blood suddenly ran cold. He remembered red eyes in the center of a deserted intersection. He remembered what he had been offered there.

Rising swiftly, gracefully, he moved unhurriedly from the room, offering a just-remembered WE email by way of excuse. The rest of them didn't question it as Dick, still holding Damian, moved to sit on the sofa beside Alfred, talking quietly as Damian curled up sleepily in his lap.

Tim was certain no one in the family had been anywhere near the Crossroads in years, but he fired off a few messages anyway.

"How's Miami?" he typed to Stephanie, to make sure she hadn't returned early from her girls' trip. The two of them never talked about that night after the concert. 

She answered with a picture of her legs from the knees down, poolside in the sunshine.

Next up was Jason. Tim tapped out a message quickly, his feet carrying him automatically to the old clock in the den.

"Patrol been quiet lately?" he asked.

By the time he replied – "Didn't make it out earlier this week, was still dealing with that sprain." – Tim was in the cave, pulling up Damian's tracker data. All of them had GPS tracers in their uniforms. He looked at the route Damian had taken through the city the night before. Nowhere near the arena or the Crossroads, or any of the other spots Jason Blood warned them about periodically.

Bruce and Cass were out of town and Dick had been in Bludhaven until this afternoon. Tim had patrolled different parts of the city earlier in the week. He felt fairly certain Alfred would have mentioned meeting a demon at the Crossroads and he felt equally certain the butler would have told the demon to get out of his way and go back to hell. He texted Barbara,

"Haven't heard about any magical weirdness lately, right?" Her response arrived in the same second that Jason sent another text,

"No, why?"

"Why do you ask?"

Tim made excuses for his questions and invited them to dinner. Barbara was busy, Jason said he'd be by for brunch tomorrow if there was going to be any. Tim felt a little better that none of the immediate family had had recent demonic contact, but it would be better to have all hands on deck just in case. And if there was no curse emergency, or whatever this was, then they'd still get a kick out of toddler-Damian.

He did a little more research on the areas Damian had covered but found no malicious spots. No magic-wielders had caused any trouble in Gotham in about six months, either. 

His conscience a little assuaged, Tim shut down the programs he'd used and started to climb the stone steps back to the manor.

Sliding the clock back into place Tim headed for the living room he'd left the other three in. He found Dick stretched out on the sofa, Damian stomach-down on his chest, both asleep. Now well into his thirties, Dick's laugh lines were just a little deeper these days, and some grays threaded his temples. The boys all teased him about them - he was vain enough to be legitimately offended. Damian, with his full head of dark hair, could easily have been mistaken for Dick's son. Sirius, sacked out in a late afternoon sunbeam, snored softly nearby.

Tim took a picture of the two of them, and Sirius for good measure, and went to help Alfred prep dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce loaded Cass' luggage into the trunk of the car they'd left at the small executive airport. She folded herself into the sedan, exhausted. She had methods for dealing with being cooped up on long flights, and it was always easier on the jet than a commercial flight, but she was still tired from holding still for so long. Bruce was pleased at the work they'd gotten done in Hong Kong but was happy to be home. He wore the cowl less and less these days: the job had been mostly recon and not brawling. It had been satisfying to work alongside Cass – in uniform they fell into step beside each other easily, handling problems with quiet efficiency. It felt good to have Gotham concrete under his feet again, though.

When he got in the driver's seat Cass was already buckled in and dozing. Bruce maneuvered the car off the damp tarmac and headed home.

About forty minutes later he pulled into the garage. He noticed Dick's car; he must be home for dinner. Cass woke up and stretched, popping joints in the seat before she opened the car door. She beat him to the trunk, hauling their heavy bags out of it and setting them down.

"I'm not that decrepit, Cassandra," but she just gave him her most winsome smile and started rolling her bags toward the door. They were both surprised to see Alfred had come to meet them. Usually if he didn't pick family up himself they found him in the kitchen fixing food for their arrival.

Cassandra gave Alfred a tired peck on the cheek and he ran a hand over her short hair. Bruce gave him a one-armed hug. For many years they hadn't been demonstrably affectionate with each other, but the kids had needed it and the habit had carried over to their old camaraderie.

"I wanted to give you advanced warning about an interesting development." Alfred insisted on taking a smaller bag in hand as he led them back into the house.

"Property damage or injury?" Bruce sighed, wondering which of the boys had ruined their "63 Days without Incident" streak.

"Neither. But I believe you'll find Master Damian somewhat altered." 

Bruce frowned at Alfred, who refused to meet his eye. He could tell Alfred was in a mood to tease, but whether Bruce would find the joke funny was another question.

"He's feeling nervous, so try not to overreact," This was more cautionary than Alfred usually got for injuries. It made Bruce anxious. There was never any telling what new insanity had befallen their family.

They set their luggage down in the hall (some was going upstairs and some down) and entered the bright kitchen. Cassandra sniffed the air appreciatively: some kind of roast and a pie, if she wasn't mistaken. She stopped short at the sight of a little boy sitting on the island's counter, facing Dick who sat on a stool. Tim was setting plates on the table.

"Who is this?" she smiled, trying to place the small face. It was a puzzle piece she hadn't found a spot for yet.

Bruce was halfway through putting on his least-threatening expression and posture to deal with such a young child, and stranger, when he realized who it was. Cassandra gasped with delight when she fit the puzzle piece into its place, her hands flying up to her face.

"Damian!" she exclaimed happily, surprised but unworried at the sight of such a small and adorable brother.

But Damian had trained his eyes on Bruce from the moment they walked in.

"Baba," he said softly in his high voice. Dick stood and picked him up in one movement, carrying him to Bruce who held his arms out to accept the too small package that was his youngest, twenty year old child.

"He's got all his memories and languages, but he's more comfortable with Arabic right now," Dick spoke lightly, but had been worried about this reunion, too. Bruce had a history of missteps, particularly with Damian and Jason.

Bruce was examining Damian's small face. Had he had that scar on his eyebrow this early in life? He ran a hand over the black hair and kissed the tiny forehead. Dick let out the breath he'd been holding.

 _What sorcery is this?_ Bruce teased gently in Damian's mother tongue, _Did you fall afoul of a djinn, son?_

 _Of course not, Baba, I was as careful as ever._ Damian replied with his characteristic seriousness, _Nothing unusual happened on patrol and I woke up small like this, it made Alfred the Cat seem huge and it's much harder to control Sirius, he doesn't listen as well when you are small. I'm afraid we did nothing today except play, but it was fun. And, Baba,_ he paused his relieved rambling and lowered his voice, _you should have seen Grayson's face when he saw me, it was hilarious._ He grinned conspiratorially at Bruce who couldn't help but grin back.

"I know enough to know you're making fun of me, munchkin," Dick poked Damian's side as he passed with a handful of silverware for the table.

They sat down to dinner (Tim had stacked some large dictionaries for Damian to perch on) and ate as Alfred, Tim, Damian and Dick took turns filling in Bruce and Cassandra on the day's surprises.

Later, as the kids were cleaning up and Alfred was convincing Damian he didn't have to try and help given that he couldn't reach the counters, Bruce slipped out of the kitchen and headed toward the grandfather clock.

He was reaching a hand for the pendulum when Tim said very clearly from behind him,

"No."

Bruce turned and gave him the glare he usually found himself aiming at stubborn Jason or intractable Damian.

"You're not going to find any answers down there that I didn't already look for. I already called Zatanna, she said she can stop by tomorrow morning. But you're not going downstairs, you aren't going out, you aren't working in your study." Tim's eyes were hard.

"You're going to play and talk with Damian until it's time to get him ready for bed and tuck him in. And then you're going to stick around in case he wakes up alone and small in this huge ass house."

"Have you all just accepted this because he's so cute?" Bruce accused, angry, "Do you think he'll thank us for having to relive his entire childhood because we didn't treat it as an emergency? What if this is permanent and he's trapped as a toddler?"

Tim grabbed Bruce by the shoulders. At his full adult height Tim was still several inches shorter than the older man, but his grip was tight.

"Bruce, I'm begging you." He gave Bruce a slight shake. "I'm begging you to stay and give him a taste of the childhood we all wish he'd had."

Bruce suddenly remembered the beating Damian gave Tim in the beginning, and the years it had taken for the two of them to reach a facsimile of a working relationship. He remembered sitting in the car waiting for Tim to admit that the demon at the Crossroads hadn't offered to erase Damian: he'd offered to let Damian grow up here, away from Talia and Ra's' rhetoric and poison. Because he thought that was the deal Tim was more likely to take. Damian had tried to kill Tim and the older boy – still distrustful, still angry, still hurt – still felt sorry for the younger.

He thought of Tim and his lonely childhood in his parents' house down the road. Tim had sold that house the minute he could.

Bruce could see Tim's eyes starting to well up. He sighed and brought a hand up to pat one of Tim's where it still gripped his shoulder,

"Okay," he said quietly, "It's okay. I won't go anywhere tonight."

Tim let out a long breath and stepped back from Bruce, who closed the glass case of the grandfather clock. Together they left the den.

"No one's been near the Crossroads?" Bruce couldn't help asking, terse. It was a place the entire family avoided discussing.

"No. I checked. And Damian didn't go anywhere near the other spots." 

"I don't think the average spell caster could work a transformation like that without either making themselves known or using a coven," Bruce mused.

"That's what I thought, too. A working this big and long-lasting would need to be cast close to him, so he would've noticed. Or, it was done by something not even remotely human." Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses left little dents.

"It's just a gut feeling, but I don't think it's a curse. Do you?"

They both jumped out of the way as Cass came tearing around the corner of the hall, Damian clinging to her shoulder and giggling madly as he dangled a tattered ribbon on a stick above Alfred the Cat, who had long ago declared the ribbon his mortal enemy. They usually had to keep it hidden in a closet, the cat was so hellbent on destroying it. Dick ran, stumbling, behind them with his phone out, trying to keep them in the frame of the camera as he cried with laughter.

Tim and Bruce shared a brief look of astonishment before they broke down laughing.

"No, I guess I don't." Bruce ran a hand over his face, chuckling. Zatanna would come tomorrow, and they had faced far worse than this.

__________

Dick and Tim went out on patrol that night, promising Damian they would come home to the manor instead of returning to their respective apartments. Dick was reluctant to leave, but he agreed with Tim that it was important Bruce stay in. He and Cassandra were too tired to be out late in any case.

By 9 o'clock both Damian and Cassandra were nodding on the sofa where they'd been watching a PBS special on the history of ballet in America. Alfred and Bruce stood at the door of the room, watching Damian's eyes pop open periodically only to slide back closed. He was tucked up next to Cass, under her left arm, both of them sharing a throw. Cass' head was lolled against the sofa-back, her features relaxed in sleep.

"Surprised you let him stay up so late," Bruce teased softly. He certainly remembered Dick having a strict bedtime on school nights as an eight year old. He had to assume Alfred had even stricter standards for three year olds. 

Alfred sighed,

"Who knows how long this will last. I thought we might as well make the most of it." He was smiling, but his voice was sad. 

Bruce sometimes wondered if Alfred would have liked children of his own. Or would have liked raising – helping raise – grandbabies in addition to the family's older, emotionally traumatized children. Bruce had never planned to father children, they'd simply...collected themselves. Even Damian, his only biological child, had made his appearance as a ten year old, meaning that Bruce and Alfred had entirely skipped the vulnerabilities and responsibilities of raising an infant. 

He remembered one afternoon years ago when he'd walked in on Alfred delightedly regaling teenage Dick and Barbara with stories from Bruce's babyhood, stories he hadn't heard Alfred tell in years because there had been no one to ask for them. Bruce fondly remembered Alfred being a fixture in his life from an early age, but it wasn't until he was an adult that he'd realized how much Alfred cherished those early years.

Returning to the present Bruce bent to pick up the remote from where it lay next to Cassandra. Clicking the TV off he called her name,

"Cass, time for bed."

Cass slowly lifted her head, blinking owlishly. Damian worked to push the blanket off his lap and scoot to the edge of the sofa so that he could slide off of it. He took a few steps towards Bruce and gently gripped his pant leg, not quite asking to be carried. Bruce bent at the knee so he could pick him up, watching as Damian's face lit up in a sleepy smile. Alfred took the blanket from Cass as she stood, folding it and tossing it back to its place on the back of the sofa. Sirius followed them as they all trooped up the grand staircase to the third floor.

Cass gave each of them a peck on the cheek before peeling off to her own room, smiling for a moment at the sight of the three of them making their way further down the hall. 

"Damian, will you be alright sleeping in your room tonight?" Bruce asked as they turned into it. Alfred pulled the makeshift pajamas out of the pile of Damian-sized clothing he'd put there earlier. Sirius leapt up on the bed and started turning, turning, turning in place, until some mysterious dog-sense told him he'd done his due diligence in ensuring the safety of his surroundings and he curled up with a contented sigh.

 _I think so, Baba,_ Damian said, rubbing an eye as he took the clothes from Alfred and stumbled into the bathroom determinedly. He still had some pride.

Bruce only had one hazy memory of going to his parents' room after a bad dream. Mostly he'd felt secure in his childhood bedroom, the one that was still Dick's after all these years. But he also remembered how large the house felt after they'd died, how lonely it was when the entire floor of family quarters had been empty but for him. It had been a relief when Alfred had quietly moved from his modest suite on the first floor (from which he could easily reach the kitchen, accept deliveries, and coordinate other household staff) and claimed a room at the end of the hall, a few doors away from Bruce.

Listening to water run in the bathroom Bruce fiddled with the clothes Dick had bought, smiling crookedly at the soft cartoon figures and patterns he probably wouldn't have gotten if he'd known Damian was the intended wearer. Alfred was turning down the sheets and coverlet, flicking on a small bedside lamp and turning off the overhead lighting. Bruce wandered over to Damian's bookshelves, wondering if anything remotely bedtime-story appropriate lived there. He chuckled at the thought of reading _The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism_ aloud before he spotted a worn paperback tucked between some old math texts. 

He wondered why Damian had such an old and battered copy of _My Side of the Mountain_ and opened the torn cover only to find "Property of Jason P. Todd" written there in childishly territorial print. Had he taken it out of Jason's room or Jason given it to him?

Bruce tucked the book under his arm and picked up the armchair that normally sat near the windows, placing it down next to the bed. Alfred had been sitting on the bed next to Sirius, petting until he'd coaxed the dog to flop onto his side so Alfred could rub his belly instead. Giving the dog a final pat Alfred moved with a small groan to the more comfortable armchair. Bruce offered him the book but Alfred shook his head. 

Damian emerged from the bathroom, where, despite hoping to retain some dignity, he'd been forced to climb onto the counter top in order to reach his toothbrush and run a hot washcloth over his face. He found his father sitting on the side of the bed that wasn't turned down and Alfred settled into the armchair, waiting for him. It was both expected and unexpected. He hadn't known when he'd woken up that morning that his whole day would be filled with his family holding him, carrying him, and just...spending time with him. 

Damian wasn't sure why today had been so simple, why he hadn't felt much reserve or awkwardness. It seemed easily suddenly, like this, to act the way he really wanted to around them all. To show that he cared without feeling embarrassed or being teased for what they would, rightfully, see as an out of character admission of affection.

He had suspected it before, but he knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this weird day of being a child again was a gift.

Surprised to find he had a little more energy left, he ran at the bed and launched himself onto it, startling Sirius and making Alfred and Bruce laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

Jason parked in the turn-about at the front of the manor and took the steps one at a time for once. His left ankle had felt mostly normal for a few days, but he wasn't going to take any chances. Watching Oliver forced into retirement after his last failed rotator cuff surgery, and talking Roy down from his panic over tendonitis, had made him much more careful with his body. 

Despite being a few years younger than Dick, Jason was almost as salt-and-peppery as Bruce, except for his shock of white. He joked about being the cranky grandpa of his generation of vigilantes, but it was a daily, unironic reminder they were all aging. Better to prepare for it.

He'd been surprised when Bruce had stepped back from the cowl, allowing Dick and Cassandra to wear the mantle when called for, but he couldn't deny it set a good example. Jason was damned if he was going to die on the job because some part of his ground-down body gave out on him at a critical moment.

He moved through the quiet house toward the kitchen where he could hear everyone gathered. Sometimes when they were all sitting together, chatting – or sniping at each other, as the case may be – he got a familiar feeling of mild surprise. Surreal, like the family atmosphere was just a scene from someone else's life. He'd learned to brush it off. 

Inhaling deeply (coffee, maple bacon, and that vegetarian egg casserole Alfred made when there was a crowd) he stepped into the kitchen only to be brought up short at the sight of Bruce sitting at the head of the table, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and steadying a little boy on his lap with his other, while the latter munched on a piece of toast. They were watching a video on Tim's phone as he held it out from where he sat next to Cassandra.

Alfred, still in his robe, was already preparing a plate for Jason, smiling openly at the look of astonishment on his face. 

"Jay!" Dick called from the banquet seat. They all turned to greet Jason, including the little boy who grinned at him like he knew him already. Jason's eyebrows were stuck between surprised and cynical, one tilted higher than the other as he continued to gape at the cozy tableau.

"Come have some breakfast, Master Jason," Alfred pushed the heaping plate into Jason's hands and guided him to the table, settling him at Bruce's left. Everyone was grinning at him like they were all in on some joke. Moving on autopilot Jason started buttering his toast as he narrowed his eyes at the little boy. Looked about five years old, clothes too small for him. Messy dark hair, caramel skin, light eyes. Giving him a smugly happy look. Jason took a sip of the coffee Alfred had set in front of him.

"Did I walk in on a Very Special Episode about a teen pregnancy that Damian hid from us?" he offered finally.

The boy was close enough to punch him in the arm. Which he did. Hard.

"Ow, Jesus! Now I definitely think your Damian's," he rubbed the spot where the tiny fist had landed. But he smiled at Damian as Bruce scolded him gently and the rest of the table laughed.

"I'll have you know I don't have any by-blows, Jason Todd." Damian managed to somehow scowl and smile simultaneously, knowing that Jason was teasing. Only Cassandra noticed Bruce's eye twitch.

"Oh, my God, it's so cute when he talks all grown-up," Dick stage-whispered, running his hands over his bed-head.

Tim rolled his eyes and held his phone out to Jason.

"Here's what he looked like yesterday. If I'd known he was going to jump a few years over night I would have told you to come out sooner."

Jason tilted the screen a little to cut the glare of the island lights behind him. He looked down at a picture of Dick, sitting with toddler Damian on his lap. Both of them were looking at a book held in Damian's lap.

"And saying, 'Hey, our youngest brother is suddenly a baby, you should come check it out,' was just out of the question?" Damian tried to punch him again for the "baby" part, but Bruce intercepted him.

"It's a hundred times funnier to surprise people with it. I can't believe you even asked that." Tim took his phone back in mock disappointment.

"Well, I guess my days of calling you 'squirt' are comin' to a middle, squirt." Jason handed Damian some of the vegetarian sausage off his plate. Damian squinted at him but accepted the offering.

From pockets and the tabletop a few phones buzzed at the same time: an alert that the front gate of the property had been opened with a guest code.

"Must be Zatanna. I'll get the door, Alfred," Dick picked up his empty plate and carried it to the sink on his way out.

"So this started yesterday? Woulda thought you'd call in a witch sooner," Jason tucked into his plate with a curious glance at Bruce. 

Bruce shifted Damian from his left knee to his right, feeling pins and needles. He was still a small boy, but solid.

"Well, Damian seemed alright: he knew who he was and who we all are. Didn't seem to be any harm in waiting a bit. And now that he's grown a little I feel better. Might be one of those things that sorts itself out." He winced as Alfred the Cat jumped up onto the leg that was asleep.

"Hmm," Jason just hummed as he swallowed more coffee. He wondered how many of them it had taken to keep Bruce from escalating to DefCon Level: Family Endangerment and if they'd had to resort to threats. Tim met his eyes and quirked an eyebrow: maybe not threats, then.

"Hello hello!" Zatanna chirped as she strode into the kitchen. "Dick tells me your youngest is especially young these days, John." She leaned down to brush her lips to Bruce's cheek.

"Zanna." He returned her ghost of a kiss.

"My gods, you're even cuter than Dick said you were." Zatanna addressed Damian with her hands on her hips. Streaks of grey at her temples were left artfully un-dyed, but the rest of her locks still fell in dark classic waves. She wore her signature colors: black boots and leggings and a crisp white tunic blouse with a cropped black blazer over top. Damian gave her a small smile and looked down shyly. He hadn't dealt with anyone outside the immediate family before now.

Alfred brought Zatanna a plate as she settled in on Jason's other side. 

"Goodness, I can't finish all this! I'm not one of these strapping young things fighting crime by punching it!" she gestured around the table.

"Aw, don't worry, Zatanna," Jason winked at the woman old enough to be his mother, "Alfred's just trying to feed me up – he knows I'll finish whatever you don't eat." He patted his belly, more ample than the rest of the boys'. He carried more weight than them, but he also carried more muscle.

She slapped him gently on an immense arm and laughed as she started with the breakfast casserole. 

"Well," she swallowed a bite and waved her fork at Damian, who had commandeered Tim's phone,"I can tell you right now, you don't have anything to worry about here."

The family looked at her, surprised.

"What makes you say that?" Bruce asked, pausing Damian's game and putting the phone down out of reach.

"Aura. Well, that's the closest word for it. But there's nothing hanging over him but good intentions." Zatanna peered at Damian thoughtfully.

"So this started yesterday? What were you doing the day before that, Damian?"

"I attended a morning class, came home to train, worked on an acquisition proposal, and left around midnight to patrol."

"Where on campus is your class?" Zatanna placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder as she swung out of her seat to help herself to the fresh pot of coffee. Alfred the Cat followed her hopefully from the table to the counter, getting fur on her leggings as she poured.

"In the Johnson building, off Hilton Avenue." Damian slipped Sirius some leftover bacon from Bruce's plate.

"Hmm," she stirred creamer into her coffee cup on her way back to the table. "What about patrol?"

"I did the northwestern circuit, through Haskill and Wilson Square. I stopped by Swansett Park around two. A little boy had run away, but his father retrieved him. All was quiet, so I came home."

Zatanna chewed for a while, frowning in concentration. The family resumed some morning small talk, letting her think.

"Lemme see more pics of baby Dames," she eventually said to Dick, who pulled his phone out.

Cassandra got up from the table.

"I have to go to my classes," she put her plates in the dishwasher and returned, admiring a shot of baby Damian in Tim's arms over Zatanna's shoulder as she passed. She slowed to approach Damian and bent to gently cup her hands around his cheeks.

"Please don't grow more while I'm gone," she said warmly before waving at the table and leaving for her dance lessons.

"Take a lunch, Cass. And don't push that hip flexor," Bruce called after her. She returned to take a lunch box from the fridge.

"So yesterday you were about three years old, and today you're five?" Zatanna asked, scrolling through Dick's many pictures of yesterday's Damian, chubby cheeked and smiley. Today's Damian turned to curl up in Bruce's lap; his legs were tired of dangling and his feet were cold. He pulled them up to rest on Bruce's opposite leg. Bruce laid a large hand over the small, chilled feet.

"Six," Damian corrected, wiggling his toes just a bit, pleased at the warmth. He leaned his head on Bruce's shoulder. 

"How can you tell?" Bruce asked, looking down at him.

"Some scars on my knees, from a fall."

He lied smoothly enough, but only Zatanna was fooled by it. Damian had always been too direct to be a strong liar by the family's high standards. They gave no sign that they'd noticed it.

Zatanna tapped a finger to the tip of her nose. Next, she used it to manually twitch her nose back and forth a few times, thinking. Bruce had always wondered if this odd habit was a reference to Tabitha from "Bewitched" but had never asked.

"Damian," she said, staring into midair, "did you happen to make…a wish?" Sometimes her years of dramatic lines crept into her off-stage speech.

"No, why would I-" he stopped and his face went blank with surprise.

"I guess...I might have. I didn't say anything out loud though." He was blushing faintly and Bruce squeezed him a little.

"Not to worry," Zatanna reassured. She'd cleared most of her plate. "I have an idea that I can check out before rehearsal this afternoon, but I'll have to hotfoot it over there." She stood, checking her phone for the time.

"Alfie, thanks so much for the wonderful spread, as always!" She bent to kiss "Alfie" on the cheek. She was the only one Bruce knew of who got away with calling him that.

With a few quick pats or squeezes on shoulders she left the kitchen as breezily as she'd entered it. There was a brief silence as they blinked at her sudden absence.

Jason turned to pull her plate toward himself only to find it not only empty, but perfectly clean, with an equally pristine fork and mug next to it.

__________

Zatanna conjured a bouquet of delicate pink roses, so pale as to be almost white, as she walked down the city block toward Swansett Park. A passing girl in a stroller noticed and grinned, ecstatic, while her mother continued her phone conversation. Zatanna winked at the little girl before she remembered she was wearing sunglasses.

She could feel the Graces glowing in their corner of the park before she even crossed its boundary. It was an old presence that had taken up residence here, basking in the shouts and screams of generations of children playing while adult life bustled around them. Zatanna wondered if the statue alone had attracted it or if it had always been here, waiting to help this piece of the city prosper.

Families moved through the park or stopped on its edges to picnic, or let the kids run around the playground before continuing on. None gave Zatanna a second glance as she approached the Graces and knelt to lay the roses at their feet. She felt warmth spread through her, a sense of good humor and peace. 

"Thank you, Lady, for the gift you bestowed upon my friend." She offered the figures her most dazzling smile, grateful a hundred times over for the powers that allowed her to experience this side of the world.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching (she purposely disregarded the moody looking teen watching her from the grass nearby), she said softly:

" _rewolF snworc_."

She walked away, smiling at the girl's gasp – and the beautiful day and her rich life and the lovely, loving park – and at the halos of ranunculuses, campanula, and sweet peas blooming around each of the three Graces heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "John" and "Zanna" thing is from BTAS: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-jkXLtwtRU&t=61s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-jkXLtwtRU&t=61s)


	5. Chapter 5

"Alright," Bruce spoke into the phone, "Thank you, Zanna"

He hung up feeling lighter. If Zatanna said there were sweet spots in Gotham he wasn't going to waste time trying to disprove it.

Sliding his phone back in his pocket Bruce watched his boys horsing around in the side yard. They'd taken Sirius outside to throw his frisbee around and it had developed into a cross between tag and keep away. Jason was running wildly, Damian riding his back, as they tried to find a spot from which Damian could throw the gnawed-on plastic disc so that Sirius could catch it before Dick and Tim intercepted it. Although Jason was in regular clothes the others were still in their pajamas, Dick running barefoot on the grass and Tim in the moccasins he wore around the manor. 

Sirius, deliriously happy with so many playmates, caught the frisbee on the fly and brought it, with no apparent rhyme or reason, straight to Dick, even though Jason, Tim and Damian were each calling to him.

"Go join them," Alfred commanded from the sink, where he was putting the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.

"I'm not leaving you to clean up by yourself," Bruce replied, but as he looked around he realized there wasn't anything left to do.

"I'm just cleaning up myself next and I don't need your help for that, thank heavens." Alfred shook out a tea towel and folded it over the dishwasher handle. "Make sure they put on civilized clothing sometime soon." He left for his own room, clapping a hand on Bruce's shoulder as he passed.

"Alfred?" The older man stopped at the doorway of the kitchen.

"Do you know what his scars are from? The ones on his knees?" They'd noticed them on the rare occasions Damian wore shorts or swim trunks, or when treating the odd leg wound. 

Bruce's expression was guarded. Sometimes – oftentimes – Alfred gained confidences that Bruce did not. He didn't ask the butler to reveal them lightly.

Alfred looked out the window at the boys. Young men, really. 

"He never told me himself," his face hardened, "but my father had scars like that."

Bruce's eyebrows lifted in surprise. 

"He had a headmaster at boarding school who punished them by forcing them to kneel on uncooked rice. I was the first in six generations _not_ to attend that school." Alfred's stretched to stand a little taller, to convey how serious a statement it had been for an English family.

Traveling the world, Bruce had undergone similar tests when he had been learning meditation techniques and pain management. As an adult. Who had volunteered.

"Six," he murmured. Trying not to let his old anger with Talia and Ra's completely destroy his previous good mood.

"Yes," Alfred agreed, "And look at him now."

Bruce turned back to the window to see Damian laughing and tugging on one of Dick's arms. Dick seemed to be playing dead, limply refusing to move from where he lay on his back on the lawn, his other arm draped dramatically over his face. He could see Dick talking but couldn't make out the words. Tim threw the frisbee to Jason so he could continue throwing it for Sirius and came over to grab Dick's other hand. Together he and Damian started hauling Dick in the vague direction of the pool. Jason ran up to pick up Dick's feet just as the eldest decided to put a halt to things.

"I believe that's your cue," Alfred offered, as Dick started kicking and flopping wildly, pulling small and light Damian down across his stomach and yelling what sounded like "If I'm going down I'm taking one of you with me!" as Jason and Tim continued to half carry, half drag him and Damian around to the back of the house.

__________

When Cassandra returned in the afternoon she was pleasantly limp and sore from several hours of dance. She usually attended a group dance therapy class on Saturdays, followed by two back to back ballet classes: the first a typical technique class and the second a repertoire class, dedicated to learning choreography. They were working on a modified piece from Don Quixote. Even with the modifications it was a difficult number and she loved the challenge of mastering the steps and making them look elegant.

She found Alfred and Jason in the kitchen doing the prep work for dinner for seven. She fixed herself a snack and ate it at the kitchen island, supplementing with veggies snitched from Jason's cutting board.

"Where are the others?" she asked, crunching on a peapod.

"I think they started a movie in the den. Five bucks says at least two of them are asleep by now." Jason flipped a small piece of carrot onto the flat of his knife and waved it at Cass. She opened her mouth and he deftly tossed it in.

Cass chatted with Alfred and Jason as they went about preparing both meat and meatless dishes. Both men kept adding bits and pieces of ingredients to her snack, which was really more of a second lunch. Of all of the kids Cass maintained the fastest metabolism even into her late twenties. She needed as many calories as she could get most days and nights.

She left them sparring after Jason scolded Alfred for trying to haul the largest of the Le Creuset dutch ovens out of a cabinet himself. Alfred was insisting that he wasn't so ancient that he couldn't manage his own cookware, thank you very much, as their voices faded out of earshot.

Alfred the Cat wandered up to Cass as she moved down one of the long, wide hallways. He made a "prrrt" noise at her and twined around her legs before heading toward the den where she could hear the movie playing.

The curtains of the room were partly drawn, cutting the afternoon sun and making the cozy den feel like its own bubble, apart from the world. Alfred the Cat headed for the window seat, disappearing behind a curtain to sun himself.

Tim was sitting cross-legged in an armchair, leaning against one of the high wingbacks with his mouth open as he snored softly. Dick was also asleep, slumped into the corner of the sectional. Bruce had his eyes closed, his arms crossed and head against the back of the large sofa, but Cass could tell he was dozing at most. Damian, sitting between Bruce and Dick, was still watching the movie, his face serious with concentration.

She didn't know who had chosen "My Neighbor Totoro," but the quiet soundscape of the movie had obviously put Dick and Tim, who probably would have taken naps at some point anyway, right to sleep. Cass hadn't made any noise, but Damian turned to check who had come in. He smiled in welcome and put a finger to his lips. Cass smiled back and mirrored his gesture. She settled herself into another armchair on the far side of the room from the two who were actually asleep.

Damian hesitated and then gingerly got up from the sofa, trying not to disturb Dick or Bruce. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a cartoon alligator on the front: its word bubble said "Later." It took Cass a moment to put the joke together, but she thought it was cute even without it. He paused near her knees, shy, and she held out her arms in invitation. He climbed up onto the chair and settled himself so that his seat was on one side of her and his legs stretched across her lap. She hugged him for a moment and then settled back into the chair, leaning toward him so their heads were close together.

"I like this movie," Damian whispered to her, using the barely-there voice they used on missions. "I don't know why."

"It is peaceful," she agreed, pitching her voice so that it didn't carry. They watched as Mei and Satsuki had their argument and Mei ran off to bring corn to her mother in the hospital. She knew the movie, both Stephanie and Tim were fond of it. This was one of the only parts with any real emotional tension, as Satsuki and the community searched frantically for Mei.

Cassandra was happy to be holding Damian, felt lucky to be here in a home. Her home. With her family around her. 

Although she had ended her day of dancing on a high note, doing well in her ballet classes, she was still mulling over her dance therapy session. The therapy class was almost never physically taxing for her, but it could be emotional. A woman had joined recently, Brynna, who was stiff and anxious. She curled in on herself in a way that made Cassandra ache. Every time she looked at Brynna, who was rather mouse-y, but had an otherwise unremarkable face and figure, she couldn't get the image of burns out of her mind. Brynna had no scars Cassandra had ever seen, yet she consistently reminded her of burn victims. Mottled and raw. 

She wasn't sure this said anything about Brynna so much as it did about her own mind; how she tended to perceive things differently than other people. The counselor who guided their class had had them pair up for partner work. When asked to simply hold hands with Cassandra, Brynna had broken down in tears. Cass didn't let go. Hoped she had made it clear, with her posture and her face and her gentle grip, that Brynna was safe. That it was okay to cry.

Small Damian sitting on her lap breathed a quiet laugh as the Catbus appeared, its lurid smile somehow both terrifying and endearing. Cass smiled, too. Maybe there really was a Catbus somewhere. If she could hold the baby of their bruised-heart of a family like this, and he could feel what it was to be small, and safe, and loved.

"Damian," she said softly.

"Hm?" He watched as the Catbus found Mei and the sisters were reunited.

"If you were big again, and I was little, would you hold me like this?" She squeezed him a bit with her right arm, still wrapped around him.

"Of course," he said soberly, turning to look at her, "all of us would. You would be our baby ballerina whose feet never touched the floor." He half-smiled, a little chagrined. That had sounded like something Grayson would say. But it was true.

With her free hand Cass reached for one of his. He pressed it, not needing to ask why her eyes were misty.

On the sofa Bruce smiled, his eyes still shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Damian woke up suddenly the next morning. He wasn't sure what had woken him. Habit, maybe. Faint light tinged the room, the pre-dawn glow he was used to waking up in to run through his morning exercises.

He stretched and realized he'd grown bigger again. The t-shirt and briefs he'd worn to bed were terribly uncomfortable.

Alfred the Cat and Sirius were up, watching him expectantly and hoping for an early breakfast. They wouldn't go back to sleep now that he was awake. 

Damian slid out of bed and padded to his bathroom while Sirius and Alfred tore across the room to the main doors, excited that he was actually getting up. 

Washing his hands Damian wondered if he had anything to wear downstairs to let Sirius out and feed both pets.

Ignoring the impatient mews and whines of the animals, he moved to his chest of drawers and pulled out a navy blue sweatshirt Grayson had given him a year or two ago. He'd grown out of it before he could wear it enough to show Grayson that he actually had worn it, more than once, so he'd kept it, despite cold logic telling him to give it away. 

Peeling off the tight t-shirt his fingers brushed a raised scar on his left ribs. He'd gotten into a fight with one of the few other children in the compound, an assassin-in-training who hadn't been willing to tolerate the Heir's verbal abuse. Damian felt a hot swoop of shame in his stomach, at both the memory of the light fading from the boy's eyes and the humiliation Grandfather had heaped on him later for allowing himself to take a stab wound in the fight. He'd been nine. 

Rolling up the sleeves of the sweatshirt, Damian inhaled deeply through his nose, dispelling thoughts of incense, and exhaled through his mouth as he imagined the memory being tucked in a box and placed back on a shelf.

The sweatshirt reached past his knees, which was decent enough.

He continued meditative breathing as he let the animals out of the room, hoping, as he did nearly every day, that the thumping of their paws as they ran down the hall wouldn't disturb the rest of the family.

In the kitchen he let Sirius out and fed Alfred the Cat his half-can of wet food while he waited for the scratch on the door to let him know the dog was ready to come in.

Leaning against the cabinets, Damian folded his arms across his chest in the soft, too-big sleeves, thinking of Titus. Titus had never scratched at doors: he'd let out a soft "woof," instead. It had always seemed so polite to Damian. Not that he didn't forgive Sirius his gentle form of "knocking."

Being this size had Damian remembering his early years at the manor. He hated thinking of that time in his life almost as much as he hated thinking of every year that had come before it. How lost he'd felt. How he'd taken it out on everyone around him and knowing, unflinching in the face of the truth, that he would have been just as gratingly arrogant and imperious if he had felt certain of his place.

He tried focusing on his breathing. It helped, but he still felt tears pricking his eyes. Hearing the scratch at the door he let Sirius in. The dog rushed to his full food bowl. Damian didn't, as a rule, disturb his pets as they ate, but today he sat next to Sirius and pet the shepherd's silky fur as he wolfed down his kibble. Alfred the Cat had long since finished his portion and sauntered off to wash himself somewhere else.

Most days Damian was able to push away thoughts of his past. He'd fought hard to do penance; to show, if only to himself, that he wouldn't forget the lives he'd taken. He'd made a concerted effort to be someone worthy of this family, here, in Gotham. To be someone Grayson, and Pennyworth, and Father could be proud of. Most days he could accept that he could only keep moving forward.

But being this age again, so close to the age when he'd first come to Gotham – the counters and doorknobs the same height as they had been then – made him question how far he'd really come. Whether there would ever come a moment when it would all come crashing down and Father and the rest would decide he didn't deserve to be there, after all. How could they forgive him the things he'd said and done?

Sirius splashed him with water as he noisily slurped from his water bowl, finished with his morning meal. Damian wondered if anyone was up yet. Pennyworth was usually an early riser, but this hour was early even for him. He decided to go back to his room until someone else was up and moving about. The house felt too empty to him.

Sirius followed him, audibly burping on the stairs. Damian laughed a little and rolled his eyes at himself for finding it funny.

"So uncouth, Sirius," he admonished under his breath. He suppressed another eye roll – he usually refused to talk to his pets except to give them commands (or requests in the cat's case). Being young again was making him lax in a number of ways, apparently.

His hand on his own door knob, Damian paused. Looking further down the hall he saw that one of Father's doors was cracked. After a year or two of living in the manor Damian had realized this was unspoken code for "You may bother me if you must," whereas completely closed meant "Do not approach unless it's an emergency." 

Damian hesitated. He wasn't _really_ a child, after all. He just looked like one.

He remembered being carried up the stairs to bed. And sitting on Father's lap at breakfast the day before. The ease with which Father had picked him up and placed him on his shoulders after breaking up the boys' rough-housing. 

This was a gift, Damian reminded himself. If he really had these days to relive childhood here – at the behest of some gentle-hearted spirit, as Zatanna said – then he would try to make the most of them.

He moved silently down the hall toward the double doors. Sirius was less silent, however, panting and licking his chops as he pushed the door open wider and entered the master bedroom.

Bruce heard the dog come in, but didn't move from where he lay on his stomach. He felt Damian climb onto far side of the king bed. Sirius stayed on the floor, because he knew Bruce had Strong Opinions about dogs on his bed.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Bruce murmured into his pillow.

"No. I couldn't go back to sleep. And no one else is awake yet." Damian answered.

Bruce surmised this was Damian for _I was lonely_.

Cracking an eye, Bruce saw Damian as he'd first known him. Almost. He didn't look exactly the same as he had at ten, but Bruce couldn't decide if that was a physical difference or just the lack of perma-scowl the boy had had at the time.

It made him a little sad, to see Damian had grown again overnight. Bruce was working under the hypothesis that this childhood redux would only last three days, but it would still be bittersweet when it came to a close.

He slid an arm under the covers and lifted them. Damian rolled back off of the sheets so he could get beneath them, tucking his over-large sweatshirt down over his legs.

They lay in quiet for a while.

"B- Father?" Damian felt both embarrassed at wanting to call him "Baba" and for not having the confidence to do so. It had felt natural the last two days, after all.

"Hmm?" Bruce responded, keeping his eyes shut. Knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep today.

"You know that...I regret my actions, when I first came here?" The words came out in a whisper, and Damian felt the prick of the same tears that had been so close to escaping when he'd been downstairs.

Bruce's eyes snapped open, but he waited until Damian's met his to say,

"I've known that for a long time now." 

He watched as Damian suppressed the trembling of his lips and chin, as the smooth mask fell into place. Bruce suddenly realized he was looking at a mirror of himself as much as he was looking at Damian's early training.

"Damian...could I give you a hug?"

Bruce's instinct was to raise his arm in invitation as he asked the question. In fact, his instinct was not to ask, but to reach out and pull Damian close. But he'd learned that asking was the better method with Damian and Cassandra, when they were upset. Even physically telegraphing his intent to hug them, opening his arms, had sometimes been enough to make them shut down or retreat, shoving away arms and hands that meant to comfort.

He was hoping that this would not be one of those moments. Bruce was relieved and pleased when Damian nodded his head once, briefly, his mask fraying at the edges just a bit.

Bruce scooted a little so he could reach far enough to wrap his right arm around Damian and pull him to the middle of the large bed. Once Damian was close, his head under Bruce's chin, Bruce tugged on the covers, tucking them around Damian and gently settling his arm around him.

"I've watched you become someone thoughtful, and caring. You examined the values you were raised with, questioned them, questioned ours, and decided what _you_ would value."

"Not everyone is capable of that. Of seeing how their worldview is often shaped by their earliest experiences and caretakers. You didn't just see it, you did research on it. So methodical." Bruce paused to smile, remembering his mother using the same words to describe him.

"I'm very proud of the man you've become. I was proud of you then, too, once we got to know each other better."

He paused, measuring his words carefully.

"Please don't make the mistake of thinking that I didn't see how hard it was for you." 

Bruce still felt guilty about the way he'd handled Damian's arrival, both because of his words and actions towards Damian and for those towards Tim. He'd failed to make either boy feel secure in their own home and it had damaged his relationship with each of them, something it had taken a long time to heal. He didn't think Damian and Tim's relationship could ever be much more than cordial, even all these years later.

Bruce could feel Damian gently working his fingers around the collar of the t-shirt he was wearing, gripping it carefully. They were silent for a while, Bruce rubbing a hand up and down Damian's back. Wishing again that Damian had had a happier childhood. This would have to do.

Eventually Damian sniffed softly,

"Thank you, Baba." It came out softer and less formal than he had intended. He could feel when his father smiled, his chin resting on Damian's head.

"Can I tell you a secret?" 

Damian rubbed at his eyes and pulled his head back so he could look at Bruce curiously.

"I love it when you call me that."

__________

When Dick shuffled into the kitchen later that morning he found Alfred, Bruce, and Damian sitting together at the table sharing a pot of tea, already long done with breakfast. He didn't know why he was surprised to see Damian had grown again. This version was familiar, at least.

"Hey, partner," he said softly, hoping they would mistake his quiet tone for sleepiness. They didn't.

Damian smiled up at him from next to Bruce. They had been reading the paper together, folding and shuffling pages as they silently raced to see who would finish an article first, protesting only when Alfred, ignoring their game, pulled away the sections he was interested in.

"I see I bought that sweater in the wrong size," Dick joked, pouring himself coffee. Damian was still in the too-big sweatshirt, it's rolled-up sleeves like bulky donuts around his elbows.

Cassandra stumped gracelessly into the room, heading for the pantry where Alfred kept pastries. Her muscles were stiff after all that Don Quixote the day before.

Dick helped himself to leftovers from yesterday's large brunch, heating up casserole in the toaster oven. Cass sat down at the table with fruit salad and some scones.

"Yes, I think someone will need to run out for another day's outfit for Master Damian," Alfred said, folding the last pages of the paper.

"I'll go," Dick volunteered, maneuvering his leftovers out of the toaster.

Damian quickly caught Cassandra's eye, giving her look that bordered on pleading.

"Want company?" Cassandra asked around a mouthful of scone, not breaking eye contact with Damian. Alfred cleared his throat at Cass speaking with her mouth full, but otherwise he and Bruce ignored the unspoken conversation.

"Sure," Dick replied warmly as joined them at the table, unaware of the communication. Cassandra continued eating her scones and Damian read his current page of the paper.

__________

Cassandra claimed a shopping cart as she and Dick walked into Target. They had a small list from Alfred, in addition to clothes for Damian. They'd walked into the grocery side of the store so they started there, wandering the aisles looking for particular brands of peanut butter, tissues and dishwasher detergent.

"Two different brands and three different types of peanut butter. I can't believe he puts up with us," Dick shook his head over the monsters in the family who preferred chunky over smooth, putting the offending jars in the cart.

Cass didn't think Dick had noticed the blonde woman subtly checking him out from the other end of the aisle. She smothered a smile. So long as people didn't ogle she found it a little charming. Their family _was_ good looking.

She pushed the cart around the large main track of the store, neither of them in a rush as they dodged Sunday shoppers, spotting things they could use on end displays. Dick tossed a pack of socks into the cart and Cass snagged a small, owl-shaped jewelry dish that was on clearance. She knew Barbara would like it.

"For Babs?" Dick asked when he saw her place it in the cart. She nodded and he smiled. Cassandra could only make out the hint of wistfulness behind his smile because she was looking for it.

They reached the boys' section and slowed down, scanning for the right size section for Damian. Fewer people were in the children's department. They stopped a few racks over from a middle aged mother who was looking at boys' jeans as her toddler daughter sat in the cart and pawed through a soft book, babbling to herself. 

"How about this?" Dick held up a long-sleeve t-shirt featuring dramatic sci-fi characters, "He liked this movie as a kid. Well, he hated it less than other movies." 

"Mmm, no." Cassandra pulled several sizes of plain blue jeans and put them in the cart. She watched as Dick's hand strayed toward a tee with the Bat symbol on it.

"Nooope," she admonished gently.

"I'm just looking!" he protested. He laughed suddenly at a funny cat meme on another shirt.

"I wish I was a kid again, I'd wear the hell out of this stuff." Cassandra refrained from pointing out that Dick had more than one funny cat t-shirt in his rotation.

Sighing, Dick picked up a plain navy long-sleeve tee with nothing on it besides a breast pocket. About to put it in the cart he suddenly placed it back on the rack and grabbed a dark red version instead. Cassandra sagely nodded her approval. 

Heading towards socks and underwear they passed the mother and daughter. The little girl's wispy blonde pigtails stood up in a halo of static. She looked up from her book as they walked by and grinned as Dick pulled a goofy face and then gave her an exaggerated smile and wave. The mother smiled indulgently at them.

"Leave the kids at home?" She asked, looking at their shopping cart of household items and boys' clothing.

Cassandra snorted at being mistaken for a couple. Dick shot her a glance that told her he didn't find it as funny as she did as he replied.

"Ha, no, our cousin is visiting and didn't do a great job of packing multiple outfits." He knew they both looked a little old to have a brother under ten.

"Ah," the woman said. The little girl, still fascinated by Dick, squealed and flapped the soft book in his direction, dropping it over the side of the cart. Dick's hand snapped out and grabbed it midair before her mother's exasperated click of the tongue even left her mouth.

"Why, look at this cow!" he gasped dramatically, opening the book and pointing to the rotund bovine in question. The little girl pointed and babbled happily at him as he flipped another page or two, narrating even though there was no story involved. Finally he handed the book back to her. Cassandra watched his eyes crinkle up in his gentlest smile as the mother hoped they had a great day and the girl enthusiastically waved goodbye.

Turning to face the wall of socks Dick grabbed a plain black pair and tossed them into the cart without looking. He hunted out a package of plain white briefs amongst the many more colorful underwear options. This time, when he threw them in the cart and sighed, he sounded frustrated.

"You could adopt," Cassandra suggested quietly. This felt like a touchy subject, even though Dick was generally so easy going. His shoulders were tight and his face had closed up the second he'd turned away from the little girl in the shopping cart.

When she said it she had suspected a slight shrug from him, or maybe a little widening around the eyes. But he didn't react at all, which shocked her. His answer confirmed it.

"I've thought about it." By the serious slant of his mouth Cassandra suspected he'd done more than just think about it idly.

"It's just...it's a job I'd really like to share with someone. I know that's a certain kind of selfish, when there are so many kids out there who need good homes." He gave her an apologetic look as he said it. "I don't even have an 'Alfred' to help me," he joked half-heartedly.

"You have us," she offered, knowing everyone would help him with a child, but as she said it she knew it wasn't what he meant. The barely-there sag of his shoulders was lonely.

Leaving her spot behind the cart Cassandra slid her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin. It wasn't fair when someone's dreams hinged on finding another someone who shared them.

Dick smiled and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her inky head, squeezing before he let go.

"Alright, let's go find this kid some shoes he won't hate."


	7. Chapter 7

Damian felt better after talking with Father in the morning. It had given him some thoughts on how he should spend this last day of his second childhood. 

He'd thought it was lucky that Father had to get through important paperwork before start of business the next day: he would be occupied for a few hours, promising to be available in the afternoon. Jason had texted in the early hours to say he was crashing in the city after patrol. Pennyworth always had tasks to keep him busy. But once Grayson and Cassandra had volunteered to go out and get clothing for him, Damian had decided perhaps it wasn't just luck helping him toward his goal.

He had the feeling he really owed a lot to that statue.

As long as Drake woke up soon.

Damian left Alfred in the kitchen, having stood on an old step stool to help him wash and dry the few pans they'd used as well as the china teapot. Alfred had taken advantage of this added height to give him a gentle hug before shoo-ing him away.

"Tuck yourself under a blanket somewhere while we wait for Richard and Cassandra to deliver you some pants."

But Damian had plans. And he wasn't cold as he wandered through the first floor, on the hunt for Alfred the Cat. While he looked, he remembered how completely his opinion of Drake had changed in the years since they'd met.

The first time Damian realized he respected Drake, he'd accepted it. Drake was no slouch, mentally. His physical prowess was less finely tuned than Damian generally found threatening, but he pushed himself without complaint, and that was a quality Damian appreciated. Respect for one's opponent was logical: it meant one was less likely to underestimate him.

But as years went by, Damian realized he admired Drake. That had come as a shock.

He saw why Father and Grayson relied on Drake, what they liked about his self-sufficiency and efficient mind. He'd watched Cassandra and Drake interact – saw that she trusted Drake in a specific way, different from anyone else in the family. He wondered at the way Todd seemed vaguely protective of Drake, angrily rebuking Damian for some slight, even though Damian felt sure Todd had said worse to the other boy. 

After close observation Damian had realized that Pennyworth paid careful attention to Drake: he watched him more closely than other family members because he was so good at hiding things. Alfred had worried when Drake moved into his own apartment. Damian had scoffed, but he'd also found the house oddly empty without Drake's presence.

When he started admitting to the similarities in their personalities Damian had been aghast at himself. And yet....They both did much of their best work independently. Damian privately felt that he and Drake had the sharpest minds in the family, behind Father and Barbara. Once, curious, he'd downloaded a book that he'd seen Drake reading the hard copy of. He'd been embarrassed to find he enjoyed the high fantasy novels, devouring them in secret in a few weeks.

Sometimes the similarities had been pointed out to him. 

"Why are you and Timmy both so damn bad at asking for help?" Grayson had scolded, his patience frayed as he cleaned Damian's head wound.

"In the young master's defense, I feel that is a family-wide trait," Alfred had interjected, arriving with supplies for stitches.

Damian had hacked his school counselor's files, out of a sense of thoroughness more than curiosity. He hadn't even realized he'd been assigned the same woman as Drake.

"...analytical, reserved. A lot like Tim, actually. Not sure where they get it from, the other two seemed sweet as pie…"

Damian had taken her informal notes as a personal insult to the whole family. Pie indeed.

But, as more time passed, he felt worse and worse about how he'd treated the older boy. Here was someone who could have been a valuable ally. Someone who occupied a similar space in the family: there was a dividing line between Grayson and Jason's childhoods and their own. Someone with shared interests and communication style. He loved Grayson, but he sometimes found being around him exhausting. His informality, optimism, and insistence on ruffling hair or sitting close were traits that Damian both liked and needed a break from after a while. He wondered if Drake felt the same, when he retreated from noisy family events or took more than one step back from Grayson after a hug.

Damian had long since learned to regret his early attack on Timothy. It was unbecoming of the man he wanted to be. But the realization that he had irreparably damaged his chances of being friends with Tim had hurt in a different way.

He had been sixteen, by himself on top of the ridiculous tower the Titans maintained. Drake and his peers had left without him, after a successful mission where they'd all managed to work well together, for once. Damian's own small group of Titan friends hadn't been available for this fight. 

Damian played back his own behavior over the last several hours. He had deliberately tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice when making suggestions. He had followed orders and relayed ideas. Drake was an excellent strategist, he led well. They'd all felt the high of a job well done, talking about going out for food. Damian had taken longer to change, texting Alfred to let him know the job was done and they'd be out longer. Drake and the rest had probably assumed Damian had disappeared with no intention of joining them and left. Idiots.

He had known it wasn't fair to blame them. Him. There was no reason for Drake to think Damian wanted to be more than colleagues. At best.

Anger had fizzed in his stomach as he sat there. And guilt. It made Damian want to hurt Timothy more, push him out of the family somehow, so that he wouldn't have to be constantly confronted by his shameful past.

But that wasn't him anymore. He refused to be ruled by emotions, especially anger. 

Listening to wind whistle in his ears, over the sounds of the city below him, Damian had had the rather brutal thought that the coldness between him and Timothy was no more than he deserved. His early actions, however misguided, had brought this about. He would respect Timothy's apparent wish for things between them to stay they were. A careful balance of silence, avoidance, and tact, when they had to speak to each other.

In the present, Damian shook himself out of the gloom that was threatening to settle over him. This was another chance. Timothy hadn't been cold when Damian had woken up as little more than a baby, scared and uncertain. He'd even picked him up. And he'd stuck around to play, yesterday and the day before.

Padding silently into one of the little-used salons on the first floor Damian spotted Alfred the Cat flopped out long in a strong sunbeam. He made a happy little purr-whine noise at Damian, sun-drunk and wriggling back and forth in a tempting invitation to pet his white tummy (and be destroyed).

Crouching down Damian pet the cat for a little bit, ably avoiding being destroyed by sharp claws. When Alfred had settled down, blinking slowly at Damian, he scooped the cat up. Mewing in protest Alfred climbed up to Damian's shoulder, pulling threads out of the sweatshirt.

"Sorry, friend, I have a job for you," Damian said as he settled the cat more comfortably across the back of his neck, enjoying the feeling of Alfred's purring as they headed upstairs.

Timothy was slightly allergic to cats. It didn't matter much, to have just one cat in the immense and immaculately kept house, especially since he didn't live there full time. He only got sniffly when he pet Alfred the Cat. He liked cats – sometimes it was worth the sneezing. 

And, like most felines, Alfred the Cat seemed drawn to the person who would suffer most under his attentions. They often found the cat pawing at Tim's door, even when he wasn't home, and he seemed to enjoy trapping Tim in armchairs and on sofas, when he curled up in his lap and Tim couldn't move without first lifting Alfred off.

Pausing outside the door to Tim's room, Damian listened closely. The solid wood doors of the manor muffled sound very effectively. Still, it seemed like the kind of silence that meant Tim was asleep. He often slept late when he could. Pennyworth, impatient, had once woken him up on Christmas, when 10 o'clock, 11 and finally noon had come and gone and no one had opened presents yet, waiting for Tim.

Alfred the Cat had jumped down from Damian's shoulders and was about to stretch up and claw the door in a way Damian knew was both very loud and extremely bad for the old wood's finish. Damian gently pulled the cat away before silently turning the knob, just enough for the latch to slide out of the frame. He let Alfred push the door the rest of the way open, slipping through the sliver of opening. The door fell to again, not quite enough to latch. Damian smiled at a successful mission. He knew the cat would pester Tim until he'd have to get up.

Damian headed back downstairs to check whether Alfred had set another pot of coffee to brew.

__________

Tim thought he'd closed his door all the way, but he'd seen Alfred the Cat manipulate other door handles in the house. Maybe he'd figured out his. He might have to start locking it again. Walking into the kitchen he paused in the archway to sneeze violently into the crook of his elbow.

When he looked up he saw Damian at the kitchen island, wearing a huge sweatshirt with a newspaper in front of him. He was just a larger version of the toddler who'd appeared the other morning in a too-large t-shirt. His face had lost all of the roundness that had lingered the day before, but it was still open and friendly looking. 

"Hey," Tim smiled. 

"Good morning." Damian thought he might have answered too quickly, seeing Tim look at him again.

"So let me guess, you're nine today?" Tim asked as he turned and found the boat mug sitting on the counter next to the coffee maker. He poured himself a cup.

"Apparently," Damian agreed, looking down at himself and his ridiculous ensemble. In the very back of one of his drawers he'd managed to find an ancient pair of red swim trunks. They were still too big, but the drawstring could be drawn tight enough to stay put around his waist. Their baggy hems reached part way down his calves, but it was better than the sweatshirt alone.

"Where is everyone?" Tim asked, pulling a protein bar out of a cabinet. 

"Grayson and Cassandra went to pick up clothing for me," Damian blushed just slightly, "Father is working on the Polmark acquisition. Jason stayed in the city last night. And it's laundry day," by way of explaining Alfred's whereabouts.

Tim groaned.

"God, I forgot about the Polmark stuff. Better him than me, their legal department is driving ours up the wall." Tim sat at the island next to Damian.

"If the rest of the company is as badly run it's going to be difficult to onboard them," Damian agreed. They'd both shared Wayne Enterprises work with Bruce for a few years. At first it had irked Tim that Damian felt the need to insert himself into the family business, trying to edge Tim out of yet another role, but eventually he'd been relieved. He worked fewer hours himself as Damian, with a more flexible college schedule, had taken projects off his plate. 

Of course the board had been up in arms over another teenager being put in charge of...anything. But the building still said "Wayne" on the front, and the three of them worked hard to keep it that way.

Tim and Damian sat in silence for a bit as Tim sipped his coffee, admiring the view out the window above the sink. Damian pretended to read the newspaper he'd already read and steeled himself to ask a question.

"It's been a few days since I took Sirius on a walk, would you like to join us?"

Tim frowned slightly.

"You're going to take him for a walk with no shoes?"

"Heaven forbid my foot touch a blade of perfectly manicured grass," Damian said mildly. If he didn't have time to take Sirius through the wealthy neighborhood they often just walked the perimeter of the vast property a few times. Two circuits added up to about a mile and half of walk for the dog.

Tim snorted. 

"True." He was a little surprised Damian asked. He seemed more like his usual self today. 

"Sure. You wanna go now?" He stood to pour more coffee into his mug. 

Damian hopped off the bar stool and gave a piercing whistle to call Sirius from wherever he was in the depths of the house.

"Man, I have not had enough coffee for that yet," Tim rubbed an ear. They both grinned as they heard Sirius galloping toward them. He burst onto the scene, nails clicking and sliding on the kitchen tile as he danced happily around them. He jumped up and landed a lick on Damian's face, something he wasn't normally able to do.

"Sirius!" Damian admonished. He wiped his face with a rolled sleeve and pointed in front of himself with the other hand. The dog immediately sat at attention, but his tail swept the floor as he did so.

Damian sighed and gave Sirius his release signal as Tim opened the side door, hiding a smile behind his mug. The dog bounded out into the late spring sunshine as Damian followed and Tim closed the door behind them.

It was weird, for Tim, to be taller than Damian again. He had been for the last two days, of course, but for some reason it was different with Damian at this age. Probably because he was almost as old as he had been when they met. Tim kept a frown off his face. No point dwelling on that.

They crossed through the kitchen garden, heading toward the outer edge of the estate. Sirius sniffed everything, running ahead or standing still periodically as they strolled past more formal gardens and old-growth trees.

After a while Damian brought up the books he knew they both liked. They'd never discussed literature before, and talked over their favorite parts as they made the first circuit of the grounds.

By the time they started their second round Sirius had mostly sniffed everything he wanted to, and ran up to them with a large stick in his mouth. Damian picked it up. About to throw it, he stopped and offered it to Tim.

"You can probably throw it much farther than I can, today."

Tim smiled, happy that Damian's relaxed attitude of the past two days had lasted into today. He set his now-empty mug down on a nearby stone bench and hop-skipped in order to get extra distance as he lobbed the small branch down the grassy lane of tall poplars that bordered the west side of the property. Sirius took off after it, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted.

Damian threw an experimental punch in front of him, falling into a wide stance. 

"It's strange," he said, slowly moving through a basic kata alongside Tim, "I didn't worry once about being small the last two days. Today I miss my usual range."

Tim admired Damian's form. How young had he been when he first learned that kata? He gently tugged the branch out of Sirius' waiting mouth and threw it again.

"Well, you had plenty to distract you." He smiled suddenly, "Remember when you threw your hip out?" he asked, thinking of Damian's usual reach, "You were so mad until Bruce told you he'd done the same thing when he was young."

"Tt," Damian tutted good-humoredly, "At least you never embarrassed yourself simply by growing too fast." There were drawbacks to Father's line of tall and broad men; sometimes growth spurts outstripped the strength needed to keep up with added inches and weight.

"Yeah, I solved that problem early on," Tim said sarcastically. He had never expected to be that tall, but it would have been nice, in their line of work.

"I wonder if any of my old uniforms would fit," Damian mused, "I could join you on patrol." 

Tim felt a flutter of anxiety at the idea. Which was patently ridiculous, given that Damian had been nearly this young when he'd started patrolling with Dick.

"I don't know...we'd have to have to ask your Dad," he said slowly, not wanting to admit the notion bothered him.

"'Dad,' Timothy," Damian gave Sirius the command to drop the stick and then stooped to pick it up, "You should just say 'Dad.'" He threw the stick for the dog and turned to look Tim in the eyes.

"And I wasn't serious."

Damian didn't actually feel any desire to risk his, currently very small, neck out on Gotham's streets. Soon enough he'd be fully grown and could properly enjoy the feeling of his boot connecting with some idiot's face. 

He let his eyes dart over Tim, who hadn't moved or spoken. He was looking down at Damian blankly, his hands at his sides. Damian felt his face getting warm and decided to strike while the iron was hot. 

"I'm sorry, Timothy, for everything," he swallowed hard around the lump of regret threatening to choke him. He smoothed out his features before adding softly, "And for not saying it sooner."

There. That was it. That was what he'd wanted to say today, before he was grown up again. It felt too short, too simple. Was it enough to say only that? He felt both relieved at having said it and worried that it wouldn't make a difference. 

Sirius, having returned, sat patiently between them, looking from one face to the other, panting loudly around the stick in his mouth. 

Tim was still trying to process the "Dad" part. And the part where Damian had used his name. His first name. An apology on top of it, something he'd never expected from Damian...

He found, suddenly, that the apology barely mattered to him.

Tim started slightly when he realized Damian was waiting self-consciously for some sort of response from him.

He gently pulled Damian into a hug, wrapping his arms around little shoulders. Feeling Damian hug him back, skinny arms around his waist, Tim felt his throat lock up. 

"Even if–" he cleared his throat roughly, "Even if I didn't act like it, you've been family to me for a long time. You know that, right?"

He felt more than saw Damian's shoulders hitch in a sort of shrug. Tim's stomach dropped a little.

"Well, you are. After things were better between us...I still didn't know how to fix it completely. I'm sorry I didn't try harder."

Sirius dropped his stick with a low-pitched whine. He scooted closer and sat up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on Damian's hip and Tim's thigh. They laughed at his apparent concern and broke apart. Damian knelt to hug Sirius around his neck, hiding his face in the soft fur. 

Tim rubbed the dog's head.

"Aw, it's okay, Sirius. We love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to schmaltz town, population me. I regret nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

"What the hell do you mean, 'We were busy'?" Barbara was close to shouting.

"Too busy to tell me Damian was magicked into a second childhood? For close to three days? You would have let me _miss_ this?" She reached out and pulled Damian to her, hugging him uncomfortably tightly around his middle as he leaned haphazardly over the tilted wheel of her chair.

"I'm sorry, Barbara, we just...got distracted," Bruce held his hands out apologetically. Behind her, Dick and Tim were snickering at seeing Bruce get dressed down.

"Don't think I don't see you two laughing," she threw over her shoulder at them. They stopped immediately.

"Fine," she took a deep breath and shook out her hair behind her. "I'll forgive you," she helped Damian stand up straight again, giving his arm a squeeze as she did so, "but Steph is going to be livid she missed this."

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but Damian jumped in.

"I asked them not to tell her, Barbara."

"Why?" she looked at him seriously, "She would have come back for this."

Damian hunched his shoulders slightly and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"She's been looking forward to that trip for months," he said quietly, not looking at anyone as he said it.

"Such a softy," Barbara pushed Damian's hair out of his face and he ducked away from her hands, though he was smiling. "Just like your dad," she teased.

"Miss Gordon, I hope you'll stay for dinner," Alfred asked casually as he passed by with an armful of folded shirts, like they hadn't just been fighting.

"I'd love to, Alfred, thank you."

They spent the meal filling her in on what had happened, what Zatanna had relayed about the Graces, and showing her picture after picture of the last few days. Jason had joined them again in the afternoon, bringing groceries for another large family dinner.

After, they gathered in the den. The TV was on but the volume turned low as they talked and laughed over it, not really paying attention when Jason or Tim idly changed the channel from time to time. Dick and Damian sparred playfully, switching between real moves and more dramatic stage fighting as they moved around the room. Alfred pointedly focused on the TV when Damian hopped off of Dick's shoulders to walk along the back of the couch. The furniture had certainly survived worse.

Damian purposely squeezed between Tim and the corner of the sofa so that he could talk to Barbara who had pulled up next to it. The three of them talked about books while Bruce entertained the other side of the room with an embarrassing story about Clark. They all knew it, but it was one of those family favorites worth retelling and laughing about to the point of tears.

As the evening wore on Damian settled in next to Bruce and the adults settled on a channel. They were watching and discussing black and white _Harvey_ when Damian fell asleep. No one wanted to send him to bed. They watched together, talking quietly, until the movie was over at eleven, and Alfred switched off the television. 

Finally, Bruce pulled Damian into his lap so he could stand up with him. Damian murmured but his eyes stayed closed. The rest of the family stood, too, picking up glasses and setting the room to rights.

Dick stopped Bruce as he rounded the couch with Damian in his arms. 

"Goodnight, partner," he kissed Damian lightly on the cheek that wasn't pressed into Bruce's shoulder. 

Tim and Cassandra quietly wished Damian a goodnight, resting hands on his back. He didn't stir, but they had the impression he wasn't quite asleep. Barbara gently squeezed his dangling foot as Bruce passed her, whispering her goodnight. Jason laid a large hand on Damian's head before softly rumbling, "Goodnight, squirt." 

Bruce blinked hard as he carried Damian out of the room, trailed by Alfred and Sirius. 

Reaching Damian's room Bruce moved to lay him in the bed Alfred had just turned down, but Damian got his feet under himself instead. He stood on the bed, making him of a height with Bruce, and hugged him around the neck. Pulling away, Damian blinked once and held his arms out to Alfred, hovering nearby. His small face had a crease between the brows and his eyes slid shut again before Alfred could even move in to return the hug.

"Goodnight, my lad," he said, chuckling at Damian's sleepy expression. He pulled the sheets up over Damian as he turned onto his side and very clearly fell immediately into a deeper sleep.

Bruce turned off the bedside lamp but didn't move to leave, looking down at still-small Damian. 

"Will you ask Barbara to keep an eye on them tonight?" he asked quietly. Tim, Dick and Cassandra were scheduled to patrol shortly. 

"Of course, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly. 

Turning back at the door to the room he saw Bruce sit in the armchair still pulled up to the side of the bed.

__________

Damian woke up to Alfred the Cat kneading his chest emphatically and purring. Once he saw Damian's eyes open, the cat leaned down to swirl his chin over Damian's, rubbing his scent all over his human and getting scritched by Damian's several days' worth of stubble in return.

Damian smiled and scratched his cat's chin, resting his other hand on Sirius' head, tucked against his side. He wasn't surprised to see his hands back to their usual size, dwarfing his pets and covered in familiar scars and calluses. Damian stretched carefully, glad he'd shucked his clothes sometime in the night – that would have been a rude awakening. He was pleased to feel normal, not as though he'd just skipped three days of training. Muscles seemed to be where he'd left them.

He extended his face upwards toward Alfred's, letting the happy feline bump his nose, before slowly rolling the cat off of him so he could get up.

Damian felt invigorated as he moved to his dresser and pulled some sweats and a t-shirt on. Sirius bounced around him happily, bounding from where Damian stood to the door of the room. 

Smiling broadly Damian opened the door as quietly as he could with two animals clamoring to get out of it and raced them to the main stair, his feet landing silently where theirs made soft _whump-ittas_ on the ornate runners.

__________

As a Wayne, Damian was too frequently photographed to move around the city without notice. He'd come to the park at dusk, when many families were packing up to go home. He normally didn't care for baseball caps, but they were less menacing than a pulled-up hoodie on a man his size, and less silly than sunglasses at night (he blamed Grayson for the song that had gotten stuck in his head when he thought of wearing them).

Damian wasn't sure he could feel something, as he approached the Graces, but they certainly seemed to have a glow to them in what was left of the sunlight. He gazed at the figures for a while, mulling over the events of the last few days, as well as the artist's bold hand. How they remained so...flagrantly colorful over the decades must surely be part of their mystery.

Finally, he pulled an incense holder from the deep pocket of his hoodie. The thin piece of dark wood was inlaid with mother of pearl. Kneeling, he placed it at the feet of Epona, who he happened to be facing. He lit a stick of incense – not frankincense and myrrh, but sandalwood, like the monks used – and placed it in the holder, bowing his head over it respectfully for a moment.

Rising, he offered the statue a smile. It felt easier to smile now. Silently, since he assumed they didn't need spoken words, he hoped that they would go on granting wishes and bestowing much-needed gifts to others for as long as there was a Gotham.

As full darkness closed in Damian turned and left Swansett. Alfred had promised one of his favorite casseroles for dinner, and Timothy had brought work home that he had offered to help with before heading out to patrol his city.


End file.
